


Overexposure

by Indices



Series: (what) a series of long, strange trips (it's been!) [3]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indices/pseuds/Indices
Summary: When the Reliquary drags his best friend off on a dangerous excavation, Mezlan Shutterspark has to rescue him from their clutches—even if that means resorting to some methods that he would rather put behind him.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Series: (what) a series of long, strange trips (it's been!) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937956
Kudos: 3





	Overexposure

Mezlan Shutterspark awoke one morning to find his best friend missing.

This by itself wasn’t all that surprising. They shared a room at the inn by Zuldazar Harbor, but these days, more often than not, Pavu could be found near Tal’aman with Weaver Anaasha. She was his liaison, responsible for explaining exactly which legends and histories he was permitted to transcribe for the edification of the Horde—and which were forbidden. 

It _had_ been happening more often, lately. On one of the rare nights that Pavu actually made it back, he suggested to Mezlan that they downgrade to a one-bed room to save money.

“What!” Mezlan had replied, horrified. “You know those Amani won’t let you use their beds, right? ‘Sides, they’re probably covered with bear fur. Those things shed like crazy.”

Pavu had shaken his head, braids swinging. His eyes had that look that they sometimes got; not unfocused, but almost as though his sights were set on something invisible in the far distance. 

“I’ve slept on straw mats. They’re not so bad. And… it’ll only be for a little while. I can still visit.”

Mezlan hadn’t budged, but when Pavu got an idea like that in his head, it was damn near impossible to dissuade him. So it seemed like he’d be spending the night over there no matter how much it pained Mezlan’s wallet.

Still, he couldn’t just _abandon_ him like that. Mezlan looked at the other bed in the room. Empty. He wondered if Pavu had slept on a straw mat last night, too.

Despite his imposing stature, people were prone to walking all over Pavu. Mezlan sometimes felt like he was one of the few who grasped this: that his friend’s seemingly mild-mannered disposition was a product of something else entirely. In reality, he felt things deeply, and his head was filled with all kinds of ideas. A frenzy of abstract insights. Thoughts Mezlan couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He just had trouble putting them into words—a trait that could make him appear aloof and dreamy, or awkward and reticent.

Mezlan imagined him at the Amani enclave, day in and day out, being bossed around by this Anaasha lady… and above all, friendless. It made his heart seize up, like a spring that had been compressed too tightly. 

With this gnawing at the back of his mind, he barely paid attention as he was led around the Great Seal, tailing a group of Horde champions. (Which was a shame, because Zuldazar was rich with opportunities for some truly great photos. From its architecture to the variety of inhabitants to the natural scenery that surrounded Dazar’alor proper—Mezlan found himself imagining everything he saw as a potential shot. If only he could get the clearance!)

“And here, one may observe de Hall of Ancient Paths, recently _repurposed_ for the sake of our new allies— _ahem_.” The Zandalari emissary, Natal’hakata, coughed sharply. “His Majesty has graciously allowed this tour to be documented by outsiders. If I am not mistaken, was there not supposed to be a ‘photographer’ among your number?”

Mezlan snapped back to attention, giving him his most sheepish smile and a (possibly overenthusiastic) thumbs-up.

“Oh yeah, that’s me! Getting right to it, boss.”

While the emissary tapped his foot, he quickly snapped three photos, nearly forgetting to adjust the camera settings beforehand. 

***

As soon as he finished work for the day, Mezlan hurried over to the other side of Dazar’alor, descending into the Grand Bazaar. The place was a terror to navigate, with plodding brutosaurs and urchins scampering underfoot, on top of the gangs and merchants and stevedores just come ashore. The Horde’s arrival had only made it more chaotic, and an ambience of reptilian roars and shouts in a hundred languages filled the air. 

It reminded him, oddly enough, of the city where he’d grown up. There was a busyness to the place, a constant hubbub of movement and activity, that he hadn’t been able to find since Gadgetzan. Not even in Orgrimmar.

Finally, Mezlan managed to wrangle the directions to Tal’aman out of a laconic bladeguard. Thanking the woman profusely, he headed into the enclave.

As he passed, mothers cradled their children tighter in their arms, and warriors barred their teeth along with their battle-bears. This wasn’t the docksides, he reminded himself. These folks wouldn’t have seen many goblins around. Not to mention their recent history with the Horde. 

All in all, Mezlan decided—he was rather lucky to have made it through without being bitten in two.

He ducked into the chamber that Pavu had mentioned, where the Legendkeeper was said to tell her tales. True to his word, Anaasha, standing alongside another Zandalari, was holding court with a small crowd of listeners. They were adults and children alike; even some few Darkspear trolls, a pandaren, and a tortollan. But the one person he’d expected was nowhere to be found.

“...de Lord of Winds shrieked with rage, vowing revenge. But dere was nothing to be done. And dat was how Jani tricked the great Pa’ku into giving him one of the feathers from her headdress.”

Even after she was finished, it took a good long while for the crowd to disperse. Mezlan waited until they were sufficiently thinned out that he could approach Anaasha without being accidentally—or intentionally—elbowed in the face. 

Luckily, he’d had plenty of experience with this from his reporting days. Noggenfogger’s press statements were always a pain in the ass to cover. 

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He ducked into view. “Have you seen my friend? He’s with the Horde, has horns and hooves, is about yea high,” Mezlan pointed to a point far above his head, “and, I dunno… works here every day?”

“Oh, yes. De one named Pavu.” 

Anaasha turned her gaze on him. It was deeply, deeply calm, and he got the unnerving feeling that she could draw out every part of his life story, just from a glance. 

“He be on break. Earlier today someone from your Reliquary came by and asked to talk to him—something about an excavation. I believe dey invited him to drink at dat inn.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “What was it called again? Spirits…”

“...Spirits Be With You,” Mezlan said, disbelieving. “Those _bastards_.” It was the very same inn that they had been staying at. 

And he didn’t like the sound of what she’d said. Excavations meant curses and competition and murderous Dark Iron. And, worst of all, they meant squishy archaeologists looking for a pliable meat-shield. Just what did those elves have in store for Pavu?

Her companion gave him a strange look, and muttered something snide-sounding in Zandali. Anaasha shushed him. 

No matter. With a hurried word of thanks, Mezlan was already out the door.

***

He made it back to the inn in record time, dodging pickpockets and careening wagons as he scampered through the streets, and narrowly avoided being stepped on by a brutosaur. From high above, the gulls squawked as if to mock him.

Ximo gave him a dirty look as he tracked mud into the place, but Ximo looked at just about everyone like that. Mezlan could deal with him later. Right now he needed to find… _there!_ In the corner—Pavu’s familiar shape, sitting opposite a low table from someone with pointed ears. Someone in Reliquary colors. Pavu was _smiling_ , and from behind the reliquarian’s silhouette shook with laughter.

Mezlan rushed over and plopped down beside the former, inserting himself into the conversation. 

Sitting across from them was a nightborne with deep blue skin, bald but for a topknot. Bright slivers of metal lined his ears. At the sight of Mezlan, he gave a beatific smile, looking not at all fazed by the intrusion. 

“Your friend?” he asked, with an inclination of the head towards Pavu. Then back to Mezlan. “Theofil-Gaudin Remy, lately of the Reliquary, at your service.” 

He stood up and bowed before sitting again. “And you must be Mezlan Shutterspark! The renowned photojournalist. For all the arcane techniques that our people have refined, I cannot imagine an invention more ingenious than the camera. I’ve seen your work in the _Gadgetzan Times_ —the passion is palpable.”

“The _Times_ shut down years ago, pal,” Mezlan said dryly. “So unless you somehow got out of that bubble of yours before all the rest…”

“Oh no, you mistake me.” The nightborne affected an expression of polite scandal, before smiling again. “Since Suramar was liberated, I developed an interest in outside cultures, and so made sure to get my hands on as much paraphernalia as I could. These happened to include several old editions of the _Times_.”

“Right,” said Mezlan, incredulously. He glanced at Pavu. “So what does he want with you?”

Pavu gave him an unreadable look. “He wants me… to go with them. For a time.”

“And Anaasha let you?”

“Well, you know, she’s not really my boss.” Pavu looked uncomfortable. “They can get it approved by High Command.”

“Quite right,” Remy chimed in. “And the Reliquary is always in need of talented minds, wherever they may be found. Or so I’ve heard.”

Mezlan narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, sure you have. So what exactly do you need him to _do_?”

“We’re in need of someone with an in-depth understanding of the semiotic aspects of ancient texts. Less praxis, more theory,” the nightborne said smoothly. “I’ve already covered the details with Mr. Thunderstride.”

Pavu nodded. “Sorry, Mezlan. I’m not sure it would make much, um, sense if I tried to explain it to you…”

“It’s fine,” Mezlan said, feeling sick to hear his voice resolve into a snap. He spoke to Remy: “Hey, can we talk? Privately?”

“Why, of course. I’d be glad to! But I’m not sure what we’d have to discuss that couldn’t be done in front of Mr. Thunderstride.”

Mezlan rolled his eyes. “I meant me and _him_ , buddy.”

This earned him another opaque look from Pavu. “It’s fine,” he said quietly, though the nightborne could still hear. “I know about the dangers. And I’ve decided—I’ve decided I can handle it. Or that it’s worth the risk. Either way. It’s… a rare opportunity. And I trust them not to put me in harm’s way if they can help it.” 

Theofil-Gaudin Remy beamed. “Then it’s settled. If everything goes as planned, he’ll be back in a fortnight, with fresh topics for research. You have my word as a member of the Reliquary.”

***

Pavu went to collect his things, leaving Mezlan with the nightborne archaeologist and his ridiculous name. 

“Look here, Remy,” he hissed, as soon as Pavu was out of sight. “You might have him strung along, ‘cause he’s got a good pair of ventricles in his chest cavity. But _I_ know your game. And I won’t let you play it.”

“Theo, please,” said the nightborne in the same effervescently amiable tone, though perhaps a little sharper. “And what might that be?” He stood with his arms clasped behind his back in the same way as that blood elf from back on the boat, and so many others in the delegation. A functionary’s perfect poise. 

“You want him because he’s bigger and tougher-looking than you lot, and you think that makes him a tool, right?” Spat like an expletive, more scathing than he thought he could manage. “Makes it fine to throw him out in the field, at those dwarves with their mole machines and elementals, so you won't have to get your hands dirty or risk your precious brains?” 

Mezlan drew himself up to his full height (which admittedly wasn’t much) and met those blank white eyes without flinching. “Well guess what, _pal_? It’s not, and he’s not. And you know what? His brains are worth a hundred—no, a _hundred thousand_ of yours.”

He didn’t know what he expected. Deflection, maybe. A too-quick denial. Not laughter. But Theofil-Gaudin Remy laughed, and when he lifted his eyes there was something a little bit like respect in them, and a little more like affront. He smiled with all his teeth.

(Suddenly and unwillingly, Mezlan was reminded that this sprightly bejeweled reliquarian was descended from the same elves that had been the terror of the Horde’s logging operations in Ashenvale and Azshara for more than a decade.)

“With all due respect, you underestimate him. And you underestimate _me_ , Mr. Shutterspark.” With a wide gesture, the nightborne went on: “You may have noticed my name—a little much, no? Well, that was because my mother was a dirt-poor opera singer. For her son, a grand name was all she could afford.” He said all this in the same cheery, tour-guide tone of voice. “And do you know what I _was_ , before the shield fell?” 

For a moment his face was bright and expressive and incandescently angry, utterly unlike the perfect functionary of before. 

“I was a _courier,_ Mr. Shutterspark. One of the few options for shal’dorei of a certain birth, with no aptitude for magic or combat and no money to apprentice in a trade. The favored pawns of both regime and insurrection. I know what it is to be spent as fodder!” He clenched his outstretched hand into a fist, smile snapping back into place. “And I’ve been to Orgrimmar. If what you say is true, there are a thousand and one warriors in your Horde that would be more suited to my purposes. But I chose your friend. Why is that?”

He reached into a satchel at his side. Mezlan tensed. But it was only a roll of paper, which he handed to Mezlan before stepping gingerly to the inn’s entrance. 

“Because I wish to help this Reliquary build a future in which no one will have to be _thrown_ against the enemy to win.” A final glance at Mezlan. “Your friend has a remarkable mind, Mr. Shutterspark. I would let my own be extinguished before I let him come to harm.”

While they idled, Mezlan unrolled the sheet of paper. 

A map of Zuldazar. But at the lower left, among the stylized bones of a devilsaur… someone had marked out a bright red “x.”

Pavu returned from collecting his things, of which there weren’t many. Mezlan had noticed this before—had seen, on the other half of the room, only one change of clothes, a single clay flowerpot (containing peacebloom), and piles upon piles of notebooks and loose parchment. Mezlan lived lightly, too, but more out of necessity than any real want. He had a feeling that Pavu would live like this even if he had all the money in the world. 

Mezlan followed him a little ways down the sidestreet. “I guess this is goodbye,” Pavu said. It was not the voice of someone who was going to leave for only two weeks, but maybe that was just his nature.

“Guess so.” Mezlan gave a jerky nod. And then— 

“Hey, wait up!” 

Even if Remy had been telling the truth (and any half-decent actor could cook up a sob-story like that), anything could happen in Xibala. Especially to someone so generally green to the ways of the world. 

“If you don’t get back in time, I’ll come looking.” In the back of his throat, he choked a little. “And trust me, you don’t want a nosy photographer tagging along with an excavation. So just… be careful.”

Pavu eyed him, expression neutral, gaze a little distant. Then, just for a second, it broke into the warmest smile that Mezlan had ever seen. Like the sun falling through the clouds, a shower of light. 

With that, he followed Remy to the portal that a bored-looking telemancer had conjured at the end of the street, and disappeared. 

***

Mezlan weathered the next two weeks in something like a trance. At the complaints of his bank account, he finally switched to a one-bed room. But he barely slept. A few of their colleagues called on him—the scarily-spry old orc and the blood elf with distrustful eyes—but he could only tell them that everything was fine. That Pavu would be back in ten days. 

Then, seven. Then four. Then one.

Then, none.

On the first day after two weeks had passed he packed a few things and went down to the harbor. 

The first few fishermen he spoke to refused to row for Xibala. “A cursed place,” one said, a grizzled old troll with one eye struck out. “De queen of devilsaurs was meant to rest dere, and now you have brought your war to its shores.” And he spat into the water.

Finally, he found one. A young troll, lean and rangy, with strong arms and a gaunt look to her face. Standing upright on her rowboat, she gripped one paddle like the handle of a pike.

“It be your life, mon. And your gold.” She shrugged, eyeing the pouch of coins. The last of his savings. “I’ll take you up as close as I can, but you’ll have to swim to shore.”

***

As they came up to Xibala, the first things he noticed were the massive, rock-colored bones, rising from the face of the slope that was tilted towards the ocean. Mezlan couldn’t help but raise his camera and snap a few pictures. They were moving a little too quickly for them to turn out well, but he figured he might never get another chance like this. 

Zandalar really _was_ beautiful. It had struck him on the way here, but from this close, the water looked clearer and more glass-like than ever, like he could reach out and touch the strands of multicolored kelp suspended beneath the surface. (He did. They felt feathery, and faintly slimy.)

The second thing he noticed were the mole machines.

In the distance, further up the beach from where the fishermon had stopped—there was a cluster of them, jutting out of the pristine sands like volcanic rock. She gave a low whistle. 

“Good luck.”

“...Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “And, uh, thanks for getting me here. I’d say I’m in your debt, but I’m gonna be honest here—I _really_ hope not.”

The fishermon raised the bag of coins. In acknowledgement, he thought, or possibly farewell. “Don’t die, little green mon.”

Mezlan nodded, stashed his camera into his bag (thank the Titans for waterproofing), and closed his eyes. Then, he dove into the water.

Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to stop near enough the cliffs (above which lay the front end of Xibala—the devilsaur, not the place) that he thought he could duck into the underbrush, bypassing the Alliance entirely. With this ingenious plan in mind, Mezlan paddled for his life, occasionally surfacing to see if he was on the right track. 

Was it dignified? No. In fact, it was patently the opposite. But it got the job done, and that was what mattered. 

Then he was in the greenery, hugging the outcroppings as much as he could. Here, being short turned out to be an advantage: the grass was nearly as tall as him, making concealment much easier. 

Unfortunately, getting as far as possible from the Alliance camp meant navigating the bone-strewn hillside. As he huffed and puffed his way up a particularly unforgiving slope, Mezlan glimpsed a flash of red through the underbrush. A ravasaur. His heart leapt into his throat. Too close to avoid—it was heading right for him! 

With no time to admire the precise angle at which the sunbeams struck its brilliant tangerine plumage, Mezlan rummaged in his bag for a smoke bomb. These had better be worth the favors he’d had to call in. 

Forcing his hands to stop shaking, he judged the distance, and let the device gently roll out towards the ravasaur. Like a baby armadillo. Or an oversized dung beetle. The ravasaur bent down and prodded it curiously. 

The air erupted into smoky chaos. 

Mezlan circled past the coughing ravasaur, double-checking his map. He should be getting close… but where was it? Had that Remy given him the wrong location? What would be the point of that?

Then, he stumbled out of the grass and into the Reliquary’s digsite. 

***

A few blood elves and nightborne paced around a small, fenced-off section of bones, either standing guard or tabulating data. This was what Mezlan had emerged out into. At the end of a path behind them rose a succession of purple banners, under which the main force of the expedition seemed to be located.

Nearest to him stood a white-haired nightborne and a dark-haired blood elf, garbed in striking red, who were engaged in conversation.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” Mezlan cut in, and was hit with a mild blast of _déjà vu_. “You wouldn’t happen to be Examiner Tae’shara Bloodwatcher, would you?”

“The very same.” The blood elf turned, raising an eyebrow. “Normally I’d be charmed, but at the moment I’d ask you to make it quick. We’re all rather busy.”

“Uh, noted. Do you have a tauren researcher? Name’s Pavu Thunderstride?”

She nodded. “Quite the semiotician, that one. Several days ago he departed for the field with Researcher Remy. Past the date of their anticipated return, I might add. But not enough to send out a search party just yet, with our situation here so tenuous.”

The nightborne beside her looked over. 

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about them. Theo is a capable sort. A tad… energetic. But capable.”

“Any idea where they went?”

Bloodwatcher glanced up the hillside. “I believe it was to a cave on the other side of the slope, past the fifth vertebra. Deciphered texts seemed to indicate that a clue related to the Eye of Xibala might be hidden there.”

Mezlan frowned. Pavu wasn’t a _field researcher_ —he shouldn’t have to do anything but stay at camp and decipher ancient symbols. If Remy had brought him along anyway… a sick feeling welled up in his gut. He clenched his teeth.

“If you find them, will you tell Theo—Researcher Remy—that Astrandis would like his spyglass back?” asked the male nightborne, apparently oblivious to Mezlan’s reaction. 

“Don’t you have spares?” Bloodwatcher commented.

“Yes, but that’s my best one. It’s impossible to get any proper work done without it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, pal.” Mezlan dug around his bag until he found a pencil. “Could you mark roughly where it is on this map?”

Bloodwatcher reached over, considered the map, and did so. Then she flipped it around and, with a wink, signed the other side. 

“In case you would like an autograph from the future High Examiner.”

Mezlan pocketed it, bowing his thanks. 

Who knew? One day, it might be able to fetch a pretty penny. At this rate, he was going to need a lot of those.

***

The cave was really more of a depression in the ground. 

It was almost nighttime when he reached it, and he’d been bitten by more insects than he could count. Mezlan had taken a circuitous route to avoid the dwarves and predators that skulked in the area, scurrying through the densest underbrush, and it'd taken some fancy footwork to shimmy over the bones of the spinal column. At least he hadn’t needed to use any more of the smoke bombs. In the end, while descending the slope on the other side, he’d all but fallen into it.

As he tiptoed down into the darkness, there was the sound of labored breathing.

“I suppose this is the end for me.” 

Was that…? 

It was. Remy’s voice, a faint echo from somewhere in the back of the cave. There was a choked, unhealthy texture to it, as though he’d swallowed a lungful of ash. 

“It’s strange. The ocean. I… never thought it could be so blue.”

“You shouldn’t talk.” It was Pavu. He sounded healthy, if worried. The voice made Mezlan’s heart clench in his chest. “This—this was my fault. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, it was good of you. But I’m not so fragile as all that. And I promised…” 

A dry cough. 

“No, this is all wrong. I can’t—” Suddenly, Pavu sounded like when he froze up mid-conversation, when his mouth couldn’t work fast enough to keep up with his thoughts. “There must be something we can do.”

“Yes, there is.”

A ragged sigh. Or was it a laugh? “Leave me at the entrance. I’ll shout to draw them off.”

Mezlan turned a corner and stared into the dim violet glow of an enchanted lantern.

“Hello, Mr. Shutterspark,” said Remy from the floor. His arms and torso were bare, and bound up with bandages. Not nearly enough to conceal the extent of the burns. “Come to see me off? I’m flattered, though I suspect the lighting leaves something to be desired.”

Knelt behind him, Pavu started and began to stand up. His horns knocked against the cave’s ceiling. “How…?”

“I talked to your buddies at the digsite.” Mezlan glanced back in the direction he’d come from. “What’s the situation?”

Pavu gave him a bleak look. “There was a Dark Iron patrol. The language barrier… they must have thought we were trying to attack. Now they’re camping within sight of the entrance. Too much trouble to fight in the dark, maybe, or too cramped. You didn’t see them?”

“I kinda… fell in.”

Remy huffed a laugh. “They would have attacked anyway.”

Mezlan turned towards him, sharply. 

“‘Less praxis, more theory,’ huh?” 

“No,” Pavu murmured. “I asked to come.” In the violet light, his eyes were lowered. “Foolish of me. To believe that perhaps, by seeing the inscriptions up close, it would grant me some kind of inspiration. But mostly… I found it difficult that everyone else was bringing me back things to interpret.” He heaved a sigh. “Hubris. He might have gotten away, on his own.”

“Nonsense.” Remy was struggling to sit up, and Mezlan noticed the daggers laying by his side. They looked like letter-openers—only a little larger, and much sharper. “Those elementalists would have fried me to a crisp if it wasn’t for your quick thinking.”

“But you’re much faster. Without having to defend me—”

“Alright, alright.” Mezlan put up his hands. “So, we know that at least I could get in without them noticing. Right?”

“I doubt the same will work for me, carrying him,” Pavu said in a voice that, for once, brooked no disagreement.

“Well…” Mezlan scratched his head. “I still have two smoke bombs.”

Pavu shook his head. “Too many of them to throw at, and it would be too obvious to throw around ourselves. Their camp is perfectly eye-level with the entrance.”

Mezlan sat down on the floor, heavily. As he did, his bag thumped against his back.

“Wait—I think I have an idea.” He reached in to dig out his camera. “A crazy idea. But…”

“But it just might work?”

He looked up at Pavu, grinning. 

***

Before they left, Pavu had one more favor to ask. “Could you take a picture of that wall?” He pointed to the wall at the back of the cave. It had an intricate, circular design etched into it, a little like the one at the heart of the Great Seal. “I’ve been puzzling over the symbology since we got here, and… it would be an awful thing to leave without even the hope of deciphering it.”

“Sure thing,” Mezlan said, snapping a photo. He hoped the flash was enough to illuminate all of the details.

Then they set out for the entrance, with Pavu carrying Remy. Their lantern floated along noiselessly. The nightborne seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, still clutching his daggers, periodically muttering in Shalassian. 

At the mouth of the cave, Mezlan peered through Astrandis’s telescope. The Dark Iron camp was just a little further down the incline, beneath a small grove of trees that grew near the beach. He passed his remaining smoke bombs to Pavu. “Think you can make it?”

“As long as you get out safely.” Pavu stared at him seriously. “If there’s the slightest chance that you might be in danger… we can always think of something else.”

“Nah.” He tried to sound confident. “Who doesn’t like getting their picture taken?”

Then, camera in tow, he headed down the slope.

***

Keres Burnrope was practicing her sailor’s knots when she heard a commotion further up the slope. Had they finally come out of the cave? That stabby nightborne and the tauren who kept trying to talk? 

(She felt a little bad for the kid, but had her own opinions about the nightborne. Namely, that it was one hell of a way to thank half of your liberators by stabbing them in the back.)

“Hey, hey! I’m Steamwheedle—we’re neutral! Press coming through!”

There was a goblin in the middle of the camp. A goblin with a camera. In their camp. She blinked, instantly distrustful. This was just a _little_ too convenient. And Morgrum had warned them about Horde adventurers passing through.

Everyone had gathered around him. “Really,” Urmun was saying, incredulously. “An’ just what would a Steamwheedle press goblin be doing _here_?”

“Working on a story, what else?” The goblin grinned gregariously. It was an infectious grin; even Keres found it hard to keep a straight face. “I’m with the _Gadgetzan Times_.” He dug a wrinkled card out of his bag and thrust it into their faces. “We’re doing a story on, uh… wildlife preservation in Zandalar.”

“The _Times_?” Keres wondered aloud. “Didn’t they shut down?”

“Right you are, missy! But we’re starting back up.” He sounded a little wistful. “Yep. Rising out of the ashes, like a magnificent Pandarian phoenix. Or… a fire-elemental phoenix? Whatever! Point is, we’re making a return.”

Keres narrowed her eyes. 

“Anyway, I just wanted to get a photo of you all. But—you’ve gotta turn around first.” The goblin glanced back up the slope. “Y’know, because that’s where Xibala is, and she’s the main feature of this segment.”

Urmun frowned, furrowing his brow. “Huh.” But then, to her surprise, he started stroking his beard. “We have golems and mole machines and all kinds o’ junk, but I’ve never gotten me picture taken. Aye, I’ll take ye up on that.”

And then everyone was jostling for a place in the picture, because of course they couldn’t be outdone by Urmun. Reluctantly, Keres joined them. She could admit it—she was curious how it would turn out, just as much as the lot o’ them. But they couldn’t discount the possibility of an ambush. She kept a hand on her hammer.

“All right,” said the goblin, camera in position. “Now when I put my thumb up, say ‘magma chamber’!”

He raised his thumb high in the air. 

There was a blinding flash.

And then it was over, and the goblin was handing over the photo for them to pass around. “Don’t worry about it, you can keep this copy! Token of gratitude, right?”

When it came to Keres, she was surprised by how well it’d turned out. Though it was nighttime, and although she’d been standing in the back, her face had been captured in striking detail. Right down to the freckles! It almost made her wish that she’d smiled.

Only… what was that blob of smoke near the cave?

She turned to ask the goblin, but he was already gone.

***

While he recuperated in the nightborne camp, they said goodbye to Remy. It seemed that he was back to his usual self, if the excessively radiant smile was any indication. 

“ _Erana-dora isil_ ,” he said to Pavu. Mezlan was surprised (and then, slightly annoyed) by the tenderness in his voice. “I’ll never forget what you have done for me, Pavu Thunderstride. And for the Reliquary. Of course, I shall keep in contact! You have a copy of the etchings, no? And your notes?”

“I do,” Pavu replied. “I’ll reply to you as soon as I have conclusions. And… Theo?” 

“Yes?” The nightborne perked up even more, if that was possible, and balanced his chin atop interwoven fingers. His eyes were practically sparking. Mezlan wanted to gag.

“You were… very brave. Braver than I could ever be.” Pavu knelt down by the cot, so they were at eye-level. “I know you didn’t want me to feel as if I was expendable. But I wanted you to know—that _you_ aren’t expendable, either.”

Remy touched a hand to his own chest and murmured something in Shalassian.

Then, he turned to Mezlan. “My thanks to you as well, Mr. Shutterspark. I must admit, I half-expected you to be in favor of leaving me to my fate! But I owe it to you, that you did not.”

“Yeah, well.” Mezlan shrugged. “There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.” He glanced at Pavu. “Just don’t get yourself killed, pal.”

“Excellent suggestion! I’ll do my best to carry it out.” Remy beamed, somewhat cuttingly. “What else… I’ve returned Astrandis’s spyglass, much good may it do him. I believe he’ll be willing to furnish you with a return-trip to Dazar’alor.” 

The nightborne nodded to each of them in turn. “I suppose this is where we part ways. _Ith'nala kanesh_ , Pavu. Mr. Shutterspark. Farewell!”

As they walked over to the apprentice telemancer, Mezlan leaned over. “...Just curious. What did he say to you back there?”

“Oh, that.” Pavu gave him an enigmatic look. “He said ‘I should be the one kneeling.’ Very courteous. Almost too humble. I have no idea what I did to earn such esteem. Even if he really believes I saved his life, just by carrying him into that cave… are you all right?”

Mezlan had broken into a coughing fit.

***

“You never did tell me,” said Pavu quietly, as they rode the brutosaur caravan back into the city. They sat among the goods, facing backwards. To their right, sunset washed over the great pyramid like the iron-rust stains of old blood, casting the other side in shadow. “Why you left Gadgetzan.”

Mezlan rubbed the back of his own neck. 

“Don’t worry about it. Guess I got… tired, is all.”

“But the _Times_ …” Pavu looked off into the distance, in the direction they had come from. “It must have been hard, moving all the way to Orgrimmar. Starting over.” 

As if realizing something, he turned back to Mezlan. His eyes were thoughtful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you. If you don’t want to talk about it.”

Mezlan shook his head. “Nah, I don’t mind. It’s just… a bit far back, y’know?” He grinned widely. “And, well, actually pretty boring compared to this. Traveling around and all.”

“Hm,” Pavu said. “Reporters travel.”

“Yeah. I did.” Above them the sky seemed endless. “I just… didn’t like what I was becoming. I was like—” He stopped, considering. “Like what I figured your friend Remy was. Always doing what I could to suck up, to get the biggest scoop. Anything for a promotion. Eventually, I think—I think I forgot why I started doing it at all.”

Pavu made a soft noise of acknowledgement. 

“And then, one day, Marin Noggenfogger was gonna make this big announcement. About a new line of elixir, maybe, or some unintended side-effect. And I was there, jockeying for space like everyone else. Then, suddenly—I saw this other reporter. We’d knocked her over. I mean we, the crowd, all of us. But no one else noticed. And all of a sudden I just stood there and stared and stared. It was like one of those world-shrinkers. Like the whole world had shrunk down to just her and me. And while I was staring, get this—someone knocked me down, too. So there we were laying, just the two of us, and I turned around to look at her… and we just started laughing. We were about to get trampled to death, and all we did was laugh.” 

He took a breath. It was right there in his mind: the crowd, the flash of cameras. The mass of shoes. “But then she saw an opening, and pulled me out.”

For a moment, they sat without speaking, rocked by the brutosaur’s steps.

“When I came of age,” said Pavu, folding his arms around himself, “my parents didn’t know what to do with me. They weren’t angry. They just didn’t know what to _do_. And it was because… because I couldn’t be a hunter or a warrior or a craftsman. Not even a druid or a shaman. I couldn’t commune with the ancestors, or the Earth Mother, or with An’she. And I tried. I tried all of it. But in the end I was only good at looking for patterns in fabric or music or in stories, and dreaming up their meanings.” He picked at the thread of one of the bags they were leaning against. “Even so, they wouldn’t let me starve, and neither would everyone else. But I was filled with shame. Shame, and terrible guilt. Because I felt like I could be of no use to anyone.

“So I left. I wandered for a long time, and went hungry, and slept where I could. And I told myself this was fine, because I deserved it. I was of no use to anyone.” He raised his eyes, towards the stars that were just coming out. “But then I met someone who taught me that it was better to live. That by simply living, one could be of use to oneself—and through oneself, the world. And that only when one had accepted themselves could they be of aid to anyone else.”

Mezlan listened in silence, and kept silent for a long time after that.

Finally, he opened his bag and took out the camera.

“For memories?”

Pavu met his eyes, and nodded. 

“For the future.”

And so, as the stars were coming out and the sky was still rosy with the remnants of daylight, Mezlan snapped the picture. The trees receding, the golden city approaching, and the two of them, caught in between.

It was, he decided, his favorite one yet.


End file.
